Heart Before Body
by Canadino
Summary: “I used to love a boy,” Italy said finally, breaking the silence as he mindlessly fiddled with the thread. “I think I loved him with all my heart, but I was too young to know so.” Gertalia


**Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn't need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfics.**

Background music: --

**Minimal fluff 09!**

**---**

Heart Over Body

Feliciano wasn't usually a thoughtful, pondering being. There must have been a lack of pasta, or lack of something fun and interesting, Germany realized, that brought on this mood of melancholy around the usually hysteric brunette nation. All the better for him; Germany continued at his paperwork as Italy lay on his stomach on the floor, playing with what seemed to be a loose thread in the rug.

"I used to love a boy," Italy said finally, breaking the silence as he mindlessly fiddled with the thread. "I think I loved him with all my heart, but I was too young to know so."

"Hmm," Germany acknowledged, his interest poking its nose up like one of his dogs when he called them. He still didn't turn away from his work.

"He was a nation," Italy continued, resting his head on the coarse beige and gray pattern, "as all my lovers are. When I was young, we used to play together. Then things got messy." He sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head in his arms. "He told me we would see each other again but he never did. He kissed me before he left." There was a long pause, and Germany glanced up to make sure Italy hadn't fallen asleep on the rug. "I can't forget that," the nation said finally, his mouth barely moving so his words diffused into the air.

"What happened to him?" Germany asked, watching Italy carefully as he filed away his documents.

"He died," Feliciano said simply, opening his eyes slightly to stare at a dust bunny nearby. "One day he was there, and the next he was gone. I didn't believe it at first. He said he was going to unite all of Europe." He laughed slightly, almost bitterly in a way Germany never heard before. "He sounded a lot like Grandpa Rome. I didn't like that about him."

There was another lengthy silence. "But he was so sweet. I was only a maid in Austria's house but he was nice to me and taught me so many things. He didn't have to. I was just a little, insignificant nation back then. And then, now that I realize it since I'm older now, he was in all sorts of nation troubles but he pretended it was all okay so I wouldn't worry." Italy sighed, a sort of lethargic sound. "He loved me with all his heart, even when his body was fading away."

A barrier was carefully hidden but blatantly understood that there would be no names given nor the expectation of a question of that nation. Germany rested in his chair, a bit exhausted from the day's work. "And who do you love now?" _Who do you love more_?

Italy stared at the dust bunnies under the desk for a while before propping himself up on the rug with a small smile. "Both," he said, standing up slowly and brushing himself off. "I love you with my heart and I love him with my memory." The smile gathered energy as Italy looked at Germany, still watching him warily. "I love you, Germany," he repeated, deviousness creeping into his expression as he walked over to the desk and climbed on top of it, crawling over to Germany with the same sexy smile on his face. When he was close enough, Italy kissed him, leaning slightly as he perched on the desk, squashing the folder that held Germany's papers. "I love you," he whispered again, the repetition proving not to bolster his point but to waiver it.

Germany didn't answer, but gathered the Italian in his arms and out of reach of his work.

--

"Austria, who was before me?"

Austria didn't pause as he continued his sonata on the piano, the notes rising softly in the silence between them. Germany didn't look at the straight-laced nation; merely satisfying his gaze with the impossibly white doily where the vase of flowers on the coffee table rested on. He knew since he was born that he had stemmed from a land previously inhabited. He had not been born of a tumor that broke off another nation. He had known Prussia since the beginning, had known of Austria and Hungary and heard stories of a little maid who had grown up and moved out.

"I don't remember what was before me."

Austria's jaw stiffened slightly, barely noticeable but his fingers pressed a bit harder and notes became unharmonious. He stared straight ahead at the strings of the grand piano, struck again and again to make the sounds. Sometimes he had an urge to pound the keys of the poor instrument; now was such a time.

"Who was before me?"

Prussia would not tell, Prussia would never tell. Prussia was discord and war and lies. Maybe the words were true; again they could also not be. Prussia never cared about anyone but himself.

The musician hands came to a rest on a lap. "You were born from a young nation who couldn't handle himself," Austria said, choosing his words like picking through a minefield. "You are much capable now. Forget about the past. There's no use dwelling on that."

Against his nature, Germany pressed on. "I'm just curious; I would like to know."

"What brought on this change of heart? You never cared before."

Germany retreated from his present course and tried another. "How was Italy, when he used to live at your house?"

Austria smiled bitterly. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Who was before me?" Indirectness proved wrong and Germany doggedly pursued the topic again. Austria only looked at him with a cryptic expression, silently behind knowing glasses.

"I brought tea!" Hungary bustled into the room, breaking the spell with her sunny nature and cheerful smile. She paused only a blink as she felt the change and continued on, placing the tray of dainty china and tasty snacks onto the coffee table. "I thought some soothing rose tea would do us all some good! Would you like a biscuit, Germany?"

"I'll just have some tea, thank you." Bringing up the past with Hungary present seemed taboo, as if something between them would break. Perhaps there was a patriarchal pride underneath, the idea that a woman could never understand such complexities. Hungary could never, and therefore would totally, understand.

Pleasantries were exchanged and Germany excused himself to return to his house. Hungary watched him go, stared listlessly as the door closed softly behind him. "It was about time he asked," she said softly. Austria swept crumbs off the table and into a rubbish bin.

"Would you tell him?" Hungary asked, turning gently to Austria. The nation busied himself with straightening out his music and turned to face the woman when the silence begged an answer.

"I would not. Such things do not need to be brought up. He will remember them if he must. Such things we do not tell children."

"Ludwig understands death as well as the rest of us," Hungary said fondly. "He understands death and loss and love as well as all of us. He knows the pain of losing someone."

Austria glanced at her, before turning his back on her to face the piano again. "Would you tell him then?" he asked, before starting on another familiar piece, before listening to her answer.

Hungary looked down at her lap, at the tiny plate now empty and the cups that sat with the dregs of their afternoon tea swirling gently. "No."

--

But if parents don't tell, children will find out anyway.

Germany poked around the library at Italy's house; that house held as much ancient literature as Greece pulled up from his ruins. He doubted either twin visited the room often; there was a thin layer of dust over most of the shelves. Italian historians could be trusted, and Germany walked soundlessly through the aisles to find his answer.

Books, no matter what sort, have a magical property that pulls a reader in. Nothing stimulates the brain than well-written words. A ragged looking tome, shelved in the top where no Italian could reach, Germany noticed, the red spine flawless as if it had never been opened. He reached up, with a slight flick of the wrist, slid the book out and into his hands.

There were old, rigid pictures of watercolor and acrylic slid between the cover and first page. One picture was beautiful, completely done with an artist's hand, of colors and shapes that merged to form a uniform peace. There was no name, but Germany didn't have to guess. He put it on a shelf nearby and studied the second picture.

This next picture was not from the hand of an artist; the colors clashed and the object in question was so: in question. Germany turned the paper over a few times to see which angle told the best story. A sense of déjà vu struck the nation; for a moment, he could almost remember painting that awkward streak of blue, but he had never seen such work before in his life.

The spine groaned slightly as Germany opened the book, flipping through aimlessly. Let the pages and words take him as they may! Serendipity would prove to be a helpful aide. There was a sigh that came from the book, and Germany paused, unsure if he had heard it or merely imagined it. In his hesitation, he had turned to a page in the book that had a picture of a young boy, a young…

Holy Roman Empire. _Germany_. His old homeland, his current homeland. He had always felt a sense of pride for himself, and, after all, he had risen from the ruins of an empire, neither holy nor Roman.

Holy Roman Empire looked awfully like him, only younger and daring, thoughtless like he would never be. The face of the boy Italy had fallen in love with. And he had the face, he _was_ the man that Italy had fallen in love with.

_Even from the 1100s, I have loved you._

Germany had not always loved Italy. Before the second World War, Italy had never crossed his mind. Even after they allied, he had not loved the useless nation. Yes, in his mind, he had never loved, but his heart, had it? Italy loved a memory; could he love a memory as well? _Was_ it even _his_ memory?

Germany replaced the pictures into the book and returned it to the shelf as he found it.

--

It _was_ love, Germany noticed, that shone in Italy's eyes whenever they met with his blue ones. The warm, encompassing feeling in brown, like the color of delicious things. There was selfish, selfless love whenever Italy kissed him, affectionate versus cool and collected. Italy found him, like he had found the former in a tomato crate, hidden in his usual haunt, the office.

"Italy," Germany said, before the nation could open his mouth. "Do I remind you of Holy Roman Empire?"

"Yes," Italy replied, instantly as if he had been expecting the question. "I saw him in you the moment we met."

"What if I was him, if he never died?"

Italy smiled sadly, looking slightly upset this was being brought up as he had been in a happy mood earlier. "I wondered that myself."

"What if I wasn't him, but someone completely different? Would you love the idea that I could be him, or would you love the stranger in a lover's body?"

Italy stood, a distance away from the desk as if he were a misbehaving student in front of the headmaster. "You're not Holy Roman Empire," he said, staring at the floor. "I know you aren't, because my heart did not call out for you when I first saw you. No matter what you look like, you aren't him." He glanced up, hesitant for saying more in fear of reprisal. "But my heart calls out for you now. You're not Holy Roman Empire, but I love you anyway." Italy smiled again, a bit more optimistic. "I thought I was wrong for moving on, but I can't help it if I feel this way. My mind tells me not to forget, but we're all not controlled mainly by what logic tells us."

"I'm not him," Germany said hoarsely. "I'm not him and I never can or will be. But I want the same thing as he did; I want you to be happy."

"And I will be!" Italy nodded. "Because things are different now. We don't wage wars for fun anymore. And nations cannot be easily torn apart or…or die easily anymore. I'm happy we can all meet together and talk it all out now. We don't need to be unhappy anymore."

"There is still a chance."

"You talk just like him sometimes. You two think and plan. I'm not a thinker. I'm an artist." Italy wiggled his fingers and pointed to his head. "I mix colors and create moods here. I live for the now. And now…I'm with you." Italy crossed the desk and wormed himself into a crevice next to Germany in the chair. "My mind tells me not to be complacent, but I am. My mind tells me many funny things."

His mind told him many strange things too, ideas and schemes including flowers and tomato rings. His mind was telling him to work on the bill to help his people and avoid further conflict and save the planet. He was a nation and he had many things to do. He didn't have time to waste letting the afternoon tick away with a warm Italian pressed into his side.

He wasn't an artist, so he wouldn't know.

But…maybe.

Owari

--

Note: Fanfiction...what is wrong with this site? Then I lost the data object that held this story...life is not smilling on me lately. Anyway, this is my stand on the whole HRE/Germany thing. And Gertalia angst is too wonderful not to enjoy. Review, please!


End file.
